


And Many Happy Returns

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well.  For your birthday, you said we should try shooting the melon blindfolded. And I thought… well, for my birthday, we should try something else blindfolded.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will write something for this canon that isn't self-indulgent, gratuitous porn. Today is not that day. 
> 
> Written for the prompt "sensory deprivation".

Porthos sighs and rolls his shoulders a little, sore from the long day, and still nursing the first cup of wine he poured himself nearly an hour ago. He normally would never pace himself so slowly, but then again, he’d been drinking all afternoon and this is hardly his first cup of the day so much as it’s just his first cup in a few hours. Aramis’ birthday had come and gone and the musketeers had celebrated accordingly, loud and raucous and Aramis had sent him the look from across the barracks that only meant that Porthos had to duck behind the stables so that Aramis could push him hard up against a wall and kiss him until he forgot how to breathe – as is normally the tradition for Aramis’ birthday when there isn’t an overabundance of women. It’d only been a few short kisses, really, whispered words and hitched breaths, before they had to pull away from one another and return to the festivities. And, truly, Aramis was never unable to find women when need be. 

The night is winding down, though, and the events of the day are catching up on Porthos. Despite being Aramis’ birthday, they had had their duties earlier in the morning, and Porthos feels stiff from the little fight they’d had to break up down near the docks. After that, it’d been something like a marathon to drink everything in sight to begin the birthday celebrations. As was their way. But the night was older now – or the morning just threatening to breach over the horizon – and Porthos thinks to himself that perhaps it’s time to call it a night, to sleep off whatever nasty hangover he’ll have in the morning, when he’ll be expected to work as if nothing were amiss and he hadn’t spent the entire day celebrating the anniversary of his friend’s birth. 

“Feeling sore?” a voice asks behind him and he snaps his head around and sees Aramis closing the door to Porthos’ apartment behind him, leaning against it and smiling, placing the lamp he carries with the oil still burning on the little table beside the door, shrugging out of his cloak and then jacket. The light touches at his hair and dances in his eyes, and his smile is warm and inviting – and loose from drink. He doesn’t quite stagger when he steps forward, but there’s a purposeful sway. 

Porthos snorts out a little and stands, stretching his arms above his head, not failing to notice the way Aramis’ eyes drift down over him in a way that isn’t subtle – but Porthos revels in that attention. Aramis is flippant in his affection – precise with his flirtation and calculated in his attentions, but there are moments where it’s as spontaneous as Porthos himself can be. Moments like these – when stretching his arms over head makes his shirt untuck just slightly from his breeches, hinting at the scarred skin beneath. Porthos always finds it amusing that Aramis should take such interest in stripping him down, as if he has not seen Porthos bare before him before that very moment, as if he does not know the entire map of Porthos’ body, starting at the pathways of his scars. But Porthos enjoys the attention. For all of Aramis’ neediness and desire for affection and love, Porthos himself enjoys the way he can make Aramis’ eyes linger on him. 

He lets his arms fall to his sides and he moves over towards Aramis and – well, he’s staggering a little. But they’re both drunk and it makes his veins sing with the warmth of his blood and the joy of being alive. 

“You did take a hard fall earlier today,” Aramis continues on, as if he is not watching Porthos’ every move, not watching the way Porthos sways towards him. 

Porthos shrugs, partly to dismiss the words and partly to demonstrate his range of motion – he’d taken a fall earlier in the morning when breaking up that fight in the low town but it’d hardly been anything worth mention or worrying over – and he’d certainly experienced worse. But it was Aramis’ way to be attached to him, and to fret over him when he was more than capable of caring for himself. 

“You look tired,” he says instead, because now that he’s close enough he can see the fatigue in Aramis’ eyes. “Wilting under all the attention today?” 

“Never,” Aramis says and laughs warmly, and his eyes are still bright even if his face looks tired. He drags a hand over his face and sighs. He smiles up at him and moves to meet him halfway into the room. “You look tired, too,” he says, and his voice is laced with concern that never fails to cause Porthos pause – his heart stuttering ever so slightly despite himself. “Maybe you should sit down?” 

Porthos grunts and almost protests – but there’s the mark of mischief in Aramis’ eyes, one of those dark, sharp promises that always hint at the edge of his smile, and Aramis reaches out and brushes his fingers against a small, stubborn curl of his hair that would never stay tucked beneath his bandana. His hand lingers at Porthos’ temple for longer than strictly necessary, and then he trails his fingers down along his cheek, thumb tracing along the hair of his beard, ghosting over his lower lip before sliding down and away, resting on his shoulder and squeezing, under the guise of testing the stiffness of his muscles. 

“You know that’s hardly necessary,” Porthos mutters, and lifts his eyebrows – he hasn’t needed to be seduced since, well, ever. 

“Hm?” Aramis hums out, perfectly innocent. 

“I’ve been sitting all evening, anyway,” Porthos continues, but leans into the touch of Aramis’ hand when it strays to the nape of his neck, tugging absently on the coiled end of his bandana. He hums out a little when knuckles knead into the back of his neck gently, just a soothing touch for the sake of touch. He shivers a little and tilts his head a little to look at him. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating, anyway? More, at least. I thought you’d have been preoccupied for the rest of the evening.” 

“Who’s to say I wasn’t?” Aramis says with a shrug and a light laugh, fingers tracing down the column of Porthos’ neck. 

“You’re the type to stay until morning, if you can.”

“The dear Madame had to smuggle me out before her husband returned,” Aramis says with an overly dramatic sigh. “And thus I find comfort on my birthday with my dear friend who won’t listen to me when I tell him to sit down.” 

“Yeah, alright.” 

“Much better. Just trust me,” Aramis whispers and now there’s no doubt about it: Aramis’ eyes are suddenly alight and dancing with the low light burning from the oil, fiery and playful. His lips turn up into a small smile, almost a smirk, and it’s a look that Porthos has seen many times before – that glittering promise of something, like whispering together in a back alley when anyone could see them, like Aramis on his knees sucking him off while the cool barrel of Porthos’ gun presses against the line of his jaw, like Aramis’ breath hot against the shell of his ear as he whispers to him all the things they could do to Athos, if only they’d just tell him about it—

And Porthos learned long ago that with that look comes the promise of pleasure, sometimes intense and overwhelming, sometimes prolonged and almost painful, sometimes weighed down too heavily with things they don’t say to each other but can understand in only that one glance. So it only takes that little glance for him to nod once and shrug, going to a chair, sitting down as Aramis follows after him, looking down at him with a small smile, eyes dazzling. Porthos knows The Stare well, but even he can’t resist it. 

Aramis chuckles at whatever expression Porthos is making, and trails his hand up over Porthos’ arm as he moves to stand behind him, both hands shifting to rest o his shoulders – steady and strong and present, pressing down against his shoulders in a way that almost makes Porthos shiver, closing his eyes. He then begins to knead at the tense muscles beneath his fingers and Porthos sighs out as he, yet again, is made aware of the tension he carries there. He can feel the gentleness of Aramis’ touch seep into his muscles and down to his bones, and the tension slowly evaporates from him as he ducks his head forward, smiling as he feels Aramis’ lips ghost over the path of his spine, can feel that slight curve of his quiet, secretive smile – the kind that at first can appear innocent and yet hints at a kind of steel beneath it all. 

Aramis, for all his faults and all his many talents, has always been excellent with his hands, and it only takes a few moments for Porthos to feel sated and pliant beneath his skilled fingertips, and hums his appreciation when Aramis manages to work through a particularly persistent knot on his right shoulder, over an old wound that’s long since scarred over. Aramis drops a kiss to the top of his head as he works, answering his hum with one of his own, thumbs digging gently into his shoulders and the back of his neck, and then shifting to work their way down over his arms, tracing along the steady muscles of his arms, over biceps and along the short crook of his elbow and down over his forearms. Porthos only hums out a little when Aramis’ hands trail the rest of the way down and lace their fingers together. He tips his head back with a small sigh as Aramis’ thumb brushes over his knuckles and then he guides his arms back behind the back of his chair until his wrists meet. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, not exactly protesting when he realizes that Aramis is tying his hands together, delicate fabric winding snug around his wrists and binding them firmly together, restraining him. Silk, he thinks it might be. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” Aramis whispers against the shell of his ear, letting his lips catch and drag over the skin there, his smile touching at his earring as he moves, voice quiet. “This is my birthday present. Just tying you up in a bow.” 

Porthos grunts, and knows he could break the bond easily – probably – if he really wanted, but for now he just settles on being embarrassed over how such a loose hold could make his pulse quicken more than just a breath. 

Aramis circles the chair, still smiling, hands reaching up to trace his fingertips along Porthos’ face, skirting over his jaw and thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. 

“I had a thought,” Aramis says, with a slow smile. 

“Did you,” Porthos replies and bites back the smirking remark about _that’s a first_ because he wouldn’t put it past Aramis to just turn and leave the room with him tied to the chair just to spite him as he nurses another long drink of wine in the inn across the way. 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums out, fingertip tracing the scar on his face and then touching at the edge of his bandana, tugging on one little curl of his hair. “Would you like to hear it?” 

“You have my full attention,” Porthos says, lifting his eyebrows. 

“In more ways than one, I’m sure,” Aramis says and drops his eyes down purposefully.

Porthos shrugs his shoulders, not even denying it. 

Aramis laughs, quiet and low and full of promise. “Well. For your birthday, you said we should try shooting the melon blindfolded.” He smiles at Porthos, and slowly, painfully slowly, tugs the bandana off over his head, letting his arms drape over his shoulders as he leans in closer, close enough that he could kiss Porthos if he were to close the short breath of distance. “And I thought… well, for my birthday, we should try something else blindfolded.” 

“I don’t have my gun,” Porthos says, somewhat stupidly as his brain catches up with the rest of him. 

Aramis’ eyes are alight with his aroused mischief and he smiles stupidly at him – that big, wide smile of his that lights up his entire face and crinkles the corners of his eyes in an entirely too endearing way. “Well,” he says lightly and brushes his lips against his. “It’s not quite your gun I’m interested in tonight, my darling Porthos.” 

Porthos almost snorts. He manages the smallest huff that only draws out an answering chuckle from Aramis. 

“Are you opposed?” he whispers, letting his lips catch and drag across his lower lip as Porthos’ eyes flutter shut again. 

He shakes his head and mouths out the smallest _no_ he can manage without it actually being a whimper. He doesn’t have to have his eyes open to know that Aramis is smiling triumphantly when he pulls back and away from him, winding Porthos’ bandana around his hands – winding and unwinding, footsteps slow and purposeful as he circles around Porthos, moving to stand behind him again. 

And then he can feel the drag of his bandana, untwisted as it normally is to fit his head snugly, drag down over his forehead and then obscure his sight completely when he blinks his eyes open to test it. He fastens it as usual at the back of his head, fingers slow and precise. He can feel Aramis’ lips ghost across the shell of his ear again as he secures the knot. 

“You’re still a little tense,” he whispers, hands dropping down beneath the high collar of his tunic to stroke at his collarbones, thumbs tracing purposefully up over the dip of throat, and Porthos swallows before he can think better of it, and he can almost _feel_ Aramis’ smile at his ear when his thumb lifts to touch at his adam’s apple. His voice is nothing but a quiet, breathless whisper that sets Porthos’ skin on fire. “Let me take care of you, then.”

“It’s your birthday,” Porthos says, as way of protest and by way of invitation for him to do more. So much more. 

Aramis presses a kiss to his temple, smiling and humming out. “This is _exactly_ what I want.” 

Porthos shivers at that and Aramis pulls away, leaving Porthos feeling exposed and vulnerable. He tries to sense Aramis’ presence, tries to pick up on any sound or any stirrings in the air that can alert him to where he’ll show up next, just where he’ll touch him. His body is tense with that anticipation and he’s on guard, but he still starts a little in surprise when Aramis’ lips touch at his chin and shifting, suckling gently at the base of his jaw, letting his teeth nip at his skin when Porthos cranes his neck to give him more skin, more space, to touch him and stay close. He breathes out once and he can feel the slight puff of Aramis’ smug laughter as he licks and sucks his way down to where his neck meets at his shoulder, the scratch of his beard making him shiver. 

And then just as soon as he’s there, he’s gone again, and Aramis draws back from him. Porthos stays still, trying to sense him again but there’s only darkness beneath his bandana, and he squirms a little in his seat, stilling only when Aramis presses a chaste, almost innocent, kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then the tip of his nose, and then his forehead – each kiss delicate, almost timid. 

And then he leans down and kisses him properly and Porthos groans, soft, hungry for his touch and attention, and impatient enough to do away very quickly with that teasing, wishing he could seize him by his hair and drag him in closer as he’s wont to do, suck his tongue deep into his mouth and keep him there, lips and tongue pressing against his lips and demanding gasps and moans from Aramis’ throat. Instead, he just kisses him hungrily, knowing just what a kiss from Aramis can do to him – how it can make the world spin and how his tongue, skillful and playful, can make him lose sight of even his breathing, even his own name (something he has yet to ever, ever admit to Aramis, although he’s sure the fool has guessed, conceited as he is). Porthos immediately deepens the kiss, licking at Aramis’ lips and begging for more with the slide of his tongue and the brush of his lips against his, and he can feel Aramis’ answering smile, understated and yet with that touch of desperation the two of them share. 

Aramis allows him to taste him, to kiss him deeply, before he’s drawing back – far too soon for Porthos to feel satisfied, and the soft growl that slides past his lips is partly involuntary and partly warning, although he does not bristle when Aramis’ response is a breathless laugh. 

“Patience, my friend,” he says softly, and he still sound as if he is so close, close enough that Porthos could press closer, if he were determined. Aramis’ smile is evident in his voice, breathless and gentle, but heavy with promise. “It wouldn’t do for you to get too impatient and offend me. I could leave you here for hours, after all, while I let you clear your head.” 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” is Porthos’ articulate reply. 

Porthos can almost _hear_ Aramis’ grin, although he does not immediately say anything. Porthos also knows that, teasing fool though he may be, he can trust Aramis completely – knows without question that Aramis wouldn’t just leave him vulnerable like this, left aroused and bound. Still, he does sit still. 

And he knows this was the correct decision when he can feel Aramis’ fingers at his belt, slowly untucking his shirt from his breeches, slowly, his palms brushing over his hips in a tantalizingly painful steadiness that makes Porthos have to bite back a frustrated whine, almost bucking up against him. Aramis palms him through his breeches and it’s almost unbearable as he works at undoing his belt. He chases after that friction, that pressure, and feels Aramis’ long, careful fingertips slip inside his breeches and touch at his cock, already half-hard. The touch is faint – just the barest shadow of a touch – but it’s enough to make Porthos suck in a sharp breath and rock his hips up. 

“Fuck,” Porthos says, quietly, and his reward is the sound of his soft, pleased chuckle. 

Aramis keeps touching him, still that barest of touches, his fingertips dragging down over his cock, from base to tip, thumb circling along the cockhead for a moment before fluttering away. Just faint enough to nearly make him consider begging, and Porthos bites back the words, the demand to _do something already_. And just as he thinks he might have to voice it, just when he thinks he might have to rip his damn hands free so he can manhandle Aramis and his stupid, smirking face to the bed, he feels Aramis pull his cock from his breeches and the sweet touch of his mouth over his cockhead. 

It’s hardly a touch at all, and Porthos still gasps out, mouth falling open, and Aramis hums out happily with satisfaction, tongue curling around the cockhead and suckling. Everything twists up inside of Porthos, the pressure of desire spiraling and curling together, and he grunts once, and then moans, broken and loud, as Aramis draws him down deep into his mouth, tongue flickering across the underside, lips soft and warm against his cock. His desire is tangible, demanding, and his hands twitch to bury in his hair. Despite enveloped in the darkness of his bandana, he drops his head down, panting out, wishing he could see Aramis – knowing exactly how Aramis would look in this moment: lips red and stretched across his cock, glistening and begging to be kissed or fucked. His eyes glancing up to meet his, warm and bright and his lips curling upwards in a smile as he swallows around him. Just the mental picture of a scene well-played many nights is enough to make him buck his hips up again.

And as soon as he does that, Aramis’ lips are gone, and Porthos shivers, shuddering with pleasure and frustration, with a deep longing. He both hates and loves to be teased – loves that Aramis can draw this out of him, hates that he becomes so impatient and Aramis always refuses to give him. He aches for him. 

“Aramis,” he growls out, hushed and unsettled, spreading his thighs a little in an invitation for Aramis to return to him, to finish what he’s started. 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums out, somewhere near his ear, and a moment later, he’s kissing along his jaw and sucking his earring into his mouth, nibbling gently at his earlobe. “Yes, my dear Porthos?” 

“Don’t – the fuck you stopping for?” 

“So crude,” Aramis says, laughing, and Porthos can just envision the way he would touch a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Remember my maidenly virtues before you’re so tactless, monsieur. Think of my quivering heart.” 

“If you don’t get over here, it won’t be your heart left _quivering._ ” 

Aramis chuckles, and brushes his lips along the shell of his ear. “Is that a threat?” 

“Might be,” Porthos growls, tipping his head back.

Aramis hums out, and sucks and bites at his neck. “Will you fuck me? Fuck me so hard that I don’t even remember my name?” 

“Fuck,” Porthos replies, breathing out. “Maybe.” 

“Make me say your name with every thrust. Until it’s all I can remember. Until it’s all I know.” Aramis hums out, and tugs at his shirt to kiss along his collarbone. “I don’t know… maybe I _should_ misbehave if that’s the punishment you’ll give me.” 

“You damn tease,” Porthos moans out quietly as Aramis licks up his throat. 

Porthos pulls against his restraints, because even without seeing him, he can hear the desperate edge to Aramis’ voice, can tell he’s nearing the point of his patience where he could happily shed it all away or regain his second wind and go for so much longer – just barely touching him, just barely getting past that light teasing of lips against his ear, against his jaw, against his throat. 

Porthos rocks his hips up further, seeking out friction, blindly seeking some kind of relief or release, and tilts his head, searching for Aramis’ mouth as he finds his knee, pressing his cock up against him, rutting shamelessly. Aramis hitches out a soft moan and fists his hands into his hair, searching for leverage as he kisses him, biting down hard on Porthos’ lower lip, wanting more, more than anything, and Porthos moans out, broken and desperate to give it to him. 

Aramis breathes out, a soft whine, and presses closer into the almost nonexistent space between them, and Porthos feels him trace a hand from his hair down over his chest, tugging at his tunic and sliding up underneath, tracing over his scars, as he always does. 

“Maybe I should have you say only my name,” Aramis breathes against his mouth. And then he’s pulling back away from him completely and Porthos strains against his restraints in an effort to get him back.

“ _Aramis,_ ” he hisses out, breathless.

“Yes,” Aramis says, and Porthos can hear the rustle of his clothes as he strips. “Just like that.” 

Porthos almost squirms but forces himself to sit, thighs shuddering a little and his entire body tense with want, fully and bodily aware of every touch to his skin, every second of friction, every little suck and kiss of Aramis’ undoubtedly swollen lips. It’s all too intense, and Porthos bites at his own lip, overwhelmed with his need to have Aramis – to _see_ Aramis. But he will not beg, no matter how badly he wants to see Aramis’ face when he comes. 

Aramis is removing his clothes, with a kind of precision that, in Porthos’ opinion, sounds far too slow. He huffs out, breathless and impatient, and moans quietly when he hears Aramis’ footsteps, can sense him coming closer to him again. He can feel the chuckle inches from his chest as Aramis ducks down over him, a hand sliding up into his hair and holding tight. 

“Do you want to see me?” Aramis whispers against his mouth, not leaning in to kiss him.

Porthos gasps out quietly. “Yeah.”

“Maybe if you ask me nicely,” Aramis breathes out, lips brushing against his, nibbling delicately at his lip before swiping his tongue across it – sharp and soothing. Aramis completely. 

Porthos grunts, capturing Aramis’ mouth with his, licking into his mouth, hungry for more – always wanting more of him, always wanting to break him down and draw him in, to have him. 

Before he can whisper out the soft _please_ on his tongue, his breath swells up into a sharp groan when Aramis moves to straddle him, the pressure of his knee now replaced with soft rolls of his hips, rewarding and relieving, and so very close. He can feel the brush of Aramis’ cock against his and he gasps, mouth falling open. 

“Do you know what I’m doing right now?” Aramis breathes out, and there’s that breathless hitch of his voice, the fact that there is only one hand on him right now, the fact that there is no structure or rhythm to his hips. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

“Mm,” Aramis hums out his agreement, and bites at his chin and along his jaw. “That’s right.” 

And now that he stops to listen, past the breathless hitch of his moans and Aramis’ smiling words, he can hear the sound of Aramis moving, naked as he straddles him, hand between his legs and preparing himself and Porthos aches with the desire to see him. Porthos moans, weakly, hating and loving the impossibly slow pace that Aramis is setting, the way he must be twisting his wrist, the way his hand must fit snugly between his legs, pressing up and in and spreading himself, preparing himself for Porthos’ cock. 

Aramis nose brushes against his jaw as he kisses, leans up to whisper in his ear, “How badly do you want to come, my friend?” 

His voice is strained now, desperately keeping his voice steady, and yet always the tease. Always, always the tease. Porthos can only respond with a hitched breath and a drawn out moan, eyes closed behind his bandana, fingers curling around the tie that still binds his wrists. 

“That must mean _quite a lot_ , I think,” Aramis laughs, whisper louder this time, voice more guttural as he rocks his hips down against his hand. 

“This—” Porthos gasps out as Aramis rocks his hips down hard enough that their cocks brush again, eliciting a soft, breathless gasp from Aramis, too. “This is doing shit for my shoulders, you know.” 

Aramis laughs, and Porthos can just picture the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes, the way he tilts his head back to expose the long slope of his neck. “Oh. I’ll make that up to you. So sorry to inconvenience you this way.” 

“Ha,” Porthos gasps out a soft laugh, for lack of anything better to say. 

Aramis continues to move above him, movements slightly stilted now with his pleasure and the lack of movement available with both of them on the chair – and Porthos spares the briefest hope that the chair doesn’t collapse under their combined weight. Porthos can picture Aramis – the way his back must be arching as he lets his slick fingers move past his cock and back to his arse, the way his eyes would close, brow furrow, tongue darting out to lick his red and swollen lips. The way he shudders as he adds another finger, spreading himself wider, calculating his movements to the flick of his wrist, anticipation making him shiver. The way his head falls forward as he adds in a third finger, and the way his face looks when he’s trying to stop from moaning Porthos’ name repeatedly. 

“ _Aramis,_ ” Porthos growls, and tugs at his hands again, in an attempt to see if he can get free.

Aramis laughs, breath hitched. “Patience, love.” 

“Don’t tell me to be patient when you’re right there and I can’t even see you,” Porthos mutters, jerking his hips up. 

“Hands are a little busy at the moment,” Aramis says, and tugs pointedly on Porthos’ hair, fingers skirting against his scalp in a soothing way. “Patience,” he says again, softer this time, guttural and throaty as he kisses Porthos again. “God… but do you look beautiful like this.” 

“Aramis…” he says again, soft and urgent, strained and desperate. He doesn’t even care if it sounds like begging. 

Aramis laughs again, and Porthos can just picture the way his head tips back, watching him, surveying him – thinking he’s _beautiful_ or something that would make him feel equally as sheepish if their eyes could actually meet like this. He can picture the way he smiles, soft and gentle, before he lets the harder edge return, before he resumes his control. The way one smooth eyebrow lifts. 

Aramis touches his cock, fingers curling around him just as he rocks his hips down, taking him in with one swift movement, just as he lifts his free hand to pull his bandana back. Porthos moans at the sudden hot, tight fullness of being inside of Aramis just as he blinks to try to clear his vision. The light is dim in the room, but after sheer darkness, it is something of a shock to see Aramis’ face so close – the warm gentleness in his eyes, muted by his desire, mouth quirked into a steady smile as he squirms his hips down, adjusting to the girth of Porthos’ cock. 

“Hi there, beautiful,” he says, breathless. He trails his hands down Porthos’ chest slowly, following the muscles of his stomach as he slowly lifts his hips and rolls back down again, taking him in deeper. He repeats the motion and leans forward, kissing Porthos to swallow his steady gasps.

“Hi,” Porthos manages in return. 

“Better?” Aramis asks with a wide, playful smile, fingertips grazing over him. Being the cruel and beautiful man he is, he takes his next roll harder and rougher, making it more difficult for Porthos to actually articulate his reply through the sheer gasp of his name. 

Aramis smirks, triumphant, and then ties the bandana around his own forehead, covering most of his hair and letting the ties fall back over his naked back. 

“And this? Better?” he asks, and actually looks over Porthos’ shoulder to study himself in the little mirror next to Porthos’ dresser. He adjusts the bandana so it sits lower on his forehead and tilts his head to get the better angle, mugging a little. “Hmm.” 

“Would you fuck me already?” Porthos growls, and wishes he had the use of his hands to force Aramis to move. 

Aramis laughs. And he leans forward, still rolling his hips as he does, grinning at him. “Shall I go faster?” 

“Yes,” Porthos says automatically.

“Fuck you as you fuck me so often?” Aramis hums. His words are broken by cut-off moans and small pauses in time with Porthos’ thrusts. “Rougher?”

“Yes,” Porthos says again, breathless, nothing but a hiss for more. 

Aramis meets his thrusts with more force, growing frenzied. He lifts one hand to steady the bandana, still studying himself in the mirror. Porthos watches him, drinks him in – his flushed cheeks, his swollen lips, his wild eyes – and that soft, gentleness as he looks at himself in the mirror, traces his fingers over the paisley design of his bandana. 

“Do you want me?” Aramis asks quietly when he meets Porthos eyes, shifting away from the mirror – voice soft and steady. 

“Yes,” Porthos says without hesitation. “Always.” 

His arms pull against the silk of the ties holding his hands in place, his whole body taut as he feels the lovely tension of his desire build and reach its height, knowing that he’s close and wishing, almost, to prolong it, to just watch the way Aramis bounces in his lap, breathless and flushed and scarred and _perfect_ , hair debauched and curling out from underneath his bandana – there and out of place on him, but endearingly attractive. 

Aramis smiles, though, triumphant, and nods – and sits back a little to ride him in earnest, crude and raunchy but perfect, his fingers digging into Porthos’ thighs as his back arches. 

“Say it again,” he gasps out as he rides him. “Say you want it.” 

“I want _you,_ ” Porthos gasps, loving the way Aramis sounds in these moments, loving how easily the steadiness seeps from his voice and becomes something for his ears alone. He loves to hear his voice during these moments – and he wishes he could say it all, how much he loves this, how much he loves him, how good it feels and how he doesn’t want to stop, not ever—

“Again,” Aramis cries out, his breath hitching into a pleasurable sob. 

“I want you,” Porthos says, softer this time, thrusting up hard into him. He whispers out the words, keeps repeating it, over and over until it’s the only thing he can think, it’s the only thing he can say. And it only takes a few more thrusts before Aramis is coming. The sudden tightness is what ultimately pushes Porthos over the edge with a shudder and a cry of relief, Aramis’ name broken on his lips. 

Aramis rides him hard, bucking into him even as he rides out his orgasm, his seed against his chest, mouth open and eyes closed. He slumps on top of Porthos, breathing heavily, and Porthos can feel his erratic heartbeat against his chest. He shudders a little in pleasure, turning his head to nuzzle against his jaw, feels Aramis’ small smile against his temple when he kisses him. 

“Aramis?” he asks, quietly. 

“Hmm?” is Aramis’ intelligent reply, focused on nibbling on his ear and nuzzling his nose into his hair. 

“Untie me?” he whispers. 

Aramis turns his head so his chin is resting against Porthos’ shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he says, and doesn’t sound overly apologetic, and reaches around him, pressing chest to chest, as he works at the knot made tighter by Porthos’ struggles. 

As soon as he’s free, he’s scooping Aramis up, arms stiff but holding him easier, boneless in his arms. It takes two simple steps to get to his bed, which is just as well because his legs feel kind of wobbly and he feels exhausted. He flops down onto the bed, Aramis tucked neatly into his arms, and presses a tender kiss to his forehead, lips tracing along the edge of his bandana turned temporary blindfold. He hears Aramis sigh with contentment. 

“You look good in it, by the way,” he whispers, and Aramis’ smile turns smug. 

“I look good in everything,” is his reply, but his words are spoken softer than usual – and he tugs his head back to look at him, lifting a hand to touch his cheek, smiling softly. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, absently, to the words and to the things left unspoken between them, knowing his expression is as warm and gentle as Aramis’. He licks his lips, and smiles. “Happy birthday.”

Aramis laughs, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, smile widening when Porthos nips at his fingertips for his trouble. 

“A very happy one indeed.”

“And many happy returns,” Porthos says with a sage nod.

“Hmmm, maybe later,” Aramis hums out, a gentle laugh on his lips as he quirks into a sleepy smile.

“Promises, promises.” 

Aramis laughs again, louder, and Porthos joins in, more sedated but pleased, a deep, rumbling happiness that seeps deep down into his bones. He nods his head a bit and lifts his eyebrows.

“Come here, you,” he says, voice soft and warm. Aramis laughs and goes to him with a murmur of happiness, curling into the circle of his arms as he wraps his stiff arms around Aramis and draws him in close. Aramis sighs out – something akin to contentment and sounding almost like the purr from a very sleepy cat. Porthos takes his face in one hand, fingers curled along his chin, and drawing him up for a sleepy kiss, which Aramis returns with a gentle smile, eyes fluttering closed as he shifts closer, slinging one leg absently over his hip, pressing up to him. 

“Blindfold worth it?” Aramis asks, and reaches up as if to tug his bandana off – until Porthos stops him. 

“Much more fun than shooting melons.” 

“Don’t say that, you’ll hurt the melon’s feelings.” 

“You’re much more interesting,” Porthos says with a grin. “I’ll take my chances with monsieur melon.” 

Aramis traces his fingertips over that grin, eyes soft. 

“Beautiful,” he says, softly, and ignores Porthos’ snort. 

“You too.” 

“I know,” Aramis whispers, and nuzzles into his shoulder, soon dropping off to a pleasant, sex-addled sleep. 

Porthos isn’t too long to follow him, cuddling close to him and holding him tight, fingertips tracing over his arms absently as he hums out, pressing his nose against his hair, cheek to his bandana. They sleep like that.


End file.
